The Test of a Man
by Watching The Roses
Summary: Lestrade is unable to face some potentially life changing news. Written in response to a challenge set by feralandfree for the Sick!fic thread in Mrs Hudson's Kitchen. Chapter 2 and beyond for the wonderful anagogia, without whom it would never have been written.
1. Chapter 1

**The Test of a Man**

Written in response to a challenge set by **feralandfree **for the Sickfic Challenge in **Mrs Hudson's Kitchen**.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade privately considered himself to be many kinds of a man. _An intelligent man_. The lad from the local comp who had gone on to reach the very top of his profession before the age of fifty. _A compassionate man_. Someone who had never been unnecessarily vengeful towards the criminals he apprehended. Hell, he even spoke nicely about his cheating ex-wife in public because he couldn't bear to see the woman he once loved disgraced. _A brave man._ One who would pursue his target no matter what the cost to himself. It was this last idea that the senior officer secretly prized most highly, a bright gem of personal truth to cling to when the rest of his life was on the brink of collapse. But if he was truly so brave, why couldn't he bring himself to open the letter from St. Thomas's that now sat like a lead weight inside his jacket pocket?

Lestrade tried to focus on the papers on his desk, but his mind continued to mull over the events of the past months. At first the pains had been easy to write off as simply the pangs of ageing, or the result of overwork. When the symptoms worsened and multiplied it became harder and harder to imagine them away, particularly given the Lestrade family history. Finally the niggling voices of doubt became too loud to ignore and he booked himself an appointment with the GP, just for a routine check-up mind. And that check-up, well that had eventually led to the production of the test results that he had received by the morning post; probably the most important results he would ever receive. The one blessing to be counted amidst all of this worry was the fact that one Mr Sherlock Holmes—ordinarily a master of deduction—hadn't unearthed his secret. Sherlock's cold-heartedness would, Lestrade told himself, be too much to stand. Besides, his ex had made it perfectly clear that he wasn't to burden her or the children with this when he _had _tried to talk, and if he couldn't rely on the support of his own family then what could he expect from a virtual stranger?

As if just thinking of the devil had done the trick, Sherlock chose that moment to burst into the office without so much as a cursory knock, followed by a red-faced John and an indignant Sergeant Donovan, who was shouting about calling security.

'I've got it' Sherlock announced to Lestrade, looking almost gleeful. 'They're test results from a medical examination. Stupid, stupid', he added more to himself. John looked puzzled, and Donovan simply turned on her heel and left, muttering something about Sherlock having 'finally cracked'. The consulting detective continued undeterred. 'Of course I've known there was something going on _physically _for weeks, your gait alone gave it away. Then I simply put it down to you letting yourself go a bit. After all, you have been spending rather a lot of time propping up the bar at the _Hare & Hound _of late. But there were those mysterious appointments, which I foolishly attributed to another ill-advised attempt at re-kindling things with the former Mrs Lestrade. It was the envelope that you kept glancing at during your 'briefing' this morning that finally gave it away, though why it's taken me so long to put two and two together I don't understand', finished Sherlock, finally running out of breath.

John, having at last caught up with the flow of events, interjected. 'Stop Sherlock. Stop this now. This is not a matter for one of your deductions'. Turning to Lestrade, he asked more gently, 'Is it true? Is it—is it—serious?'.

Lestrade felt a lump rise in his throat as he recognised the genuine concern that was now written on the doctor's face. Yet even more striking was Sherlock's sudden look of undisguised anguish, something the inspector had never before seen from the younger man. In that moment Lestrade realised the true reasons for his deception. He hadn't been afraid of Sherlock's coldness. He had been unwilling to hurt or worry the consulting detective, a man who, despite his cocksure persona, sometimes seemed so alone, so detached.

Nobody spoke for what felt like several minutes. Then it was Sherlock's melodious tones that finally broke the silence.

'Just open it. Open it now.'


	2. Fifty Fifty

The Test of a Man

[Chapter 2: Fifty Fifty]

This chapter is for the wonderful **anagogia**, without whose help it would never have been written. I hope this is something like what you wanted.

Lestrade leaned over the edge of his narrow hospital bed, trying to catch hold of the privacy curtain. The nurse had left just enough of a gap so that he could see the happy father of three in the adjacent berth. Earlier in the day he had been subjected to his neighbour's adoring wife and fawning children. Now he had a prime view of the array of juvenile "Get Well" cards that surrounded his bedstead like a halo. The man, it transpired, was a primary school teacher.

The DI had only three cards. One from his team, one from his kids (in their grandmother's hand), and one from John and Sherlock. The latter's signature was clearly a forgery by the good doctor, and in fact Lestrade had seen neither hide nor hair of Sherlock since that awful day when he had received his biopsy results.

He stretched a little further, the curtain just about evading his grasp. But the effort of moving that one more inch provoked a world of agony in the place where his stomach was not. An eruption of pain like hot, molten lava gushing forth from the site of his wound.

It felt like hours had elapsed before Lestrade managed to get onto his side, the last pangs of hurt finally subsiding. Upon rolling over he caught sight of the untouched dinner tray that occupied the chair intended for a visitor. 'No stomach, no dinner', he mused bitterly. There was nothing on TV, nothing to eat, and no visitors for days. He might as well go back to sleep.

~o~

John scraped the remainder of a Thai takeaway dinner into the kitchen bin. As usual Sherlock had eaten little, but that hadn't stopped John ordering a helping for two – hence so much waste. Out of habit he flicked on the kettle, and reached for a couple of mugs. As he made his way back into the living room, two steaming cups in hand, he observed for the second time that evening that his flatmate seemed pensive and distracted. Distracted even by Sherlock's standards.

'All right, mate?', he asked casually, depositing the tea on the coffee table.

Silence.

'What exactly did you hear about Lestrade at St. Bart's this afternoon?', Sherlock demanded after a minute or two had elapsed.

'Who said anything about St. Bart's', returned John, looking up with feigned innocence.

'You know me, John'.

'And you know me. If you think I'd reveal confidential medical information that I_ may_ have been entrusted with in my capacity as a medical practitioner, then you've got another think coming'. He added a forced smile that wasn't fooling anybody.

'Well, it was a rhetorical question really', snapped Sherlock. 'If I put together what I've learned from your body language this evening and the state of your left hand sleeve, coupled with the chart I managed to stumble over at the hospital two weeks ago, I can give you a pretty full picture. Lestrade has a stage 2b stomach cancer, probably genetically inherited, meaning that they caught it early but not too early. If he'd consulted the doctor when the symptoms started it might have been a different story. The tumour may have already begun to invade other organs, possibly the spleen. After the removal of the stomach, which may or may not have already take place, and chemotherapy, there's probably about a fifty per cent chance of complete remission'.

'Sherlock, how the hell did you...'. John clamped down on his annoyance when he saw the look on Sherlock's face.

Again there was an awkward silence.

'Do you think we should, um, visit him?', Sherlock asked after a while. 'Isn't that what people do?'.

'Sometimes', John deflected, wincing as he realised how patronising he sounded. It was an unwitting default setting when it came to explaining matters of emotional intelligence to Sherlock. 'But I'm not sure it's appropriate right now. I'd normally only expect family and very close friends to visit at this stage in such a serious illness. And Greg does have a family after all, even if things haven't exactly run smoothly in the past'.

John felt a wave of guilt the moment the words past his lips. _Why shouldn't Sherlock visit his friend? _Yet he couldn't bring himself to retract the words once uttered. Let's face it, Sherlock wasn't exactly great in these types of situations, and he couldn't help but feel that he was warding off catastrophe. And it wasn't all bad. Molly had assured him just yesterday that Lestrade had waved away her attentions, reassuring her that he was already overrun with fussing relatives.

The doctor pottered over to the kitchen to make himself a piece of toast. It was a means of diversion more than anything else. He paused before heading back into the lounge, taking a moment to silently observe his friend who sat staring into his untouched cup of tea. Out of the corner of his ear he thought he caught the muttered words, 'fifty fifty'.

~o~

Sherlock arrived at the Armstrong ward at 6.30 the next morning. He easily got past the drowsy looking receptionist, flashing the Government ID that he had purloined from Mycroft several months previously, and making some nondescript remarks about a consultation.

'Sh—Sherlock, what the blurry hell?', croaked Lestrade, coming to his senses as a head of dark curls burst through the curtained off area around his bed.

'Is this a private time for you and your family?'.

'It's six o'Clock in the morning, Sherlock'.

'I'll take that as a no'.

With that Sherlock settled himself on the visitor's chair, flicking through the _Daily Mail_ TV Guide that had lain there.

'Don't you want something decent to read?', Sherlock inquired after skimming the whole in two minutes flat.

'You're offering to run errands for me now?', returned Lestrade, managing a slight smile despite the rush of early morning pain.

Sherlock looked as though he was seriously weighing the issue. 'I could ask John. He's better at things like that'.

Lestrade pushed the limited amount of morphine he was allowed to self-administer. 'Look Sherlock, is everything okay?'.

'You're the one recovering from life-changing surgery. Shouldn't I be asking you?'.

'I'm the one who's recovering from life-changing surgery, so you should answer my question', retorted Lestrade, trying to keep a level-head.

'I never really knew my father', said Sherlock simply. The statement knocked Lestrade completely off balance; knocked him harder than the opiate. This honest expression of something so intimate was completely unprecedented from the younger man. A man who had, until now, held firmly unto himself any past hurt.

'I kind of thought that might be the case', admitted the DI, regaining himself. 'But you do know that everything's going to be okay?'.

'There's only a fifty per cent chance of that', Sherlock replied.

'Yes mate, I know. Fifty fifty'.


	3. Incapacitated

The Test of a Man

[Chapter 3: Incapacitated]

Again for **anagogia.**

_Something a bit different – I hope you like._**  
**

Sepsis.

A tidal wave of heat like nothing he's ever experienced before. Pain courses through his system as a million white blood cells attack. Each muscle, each nerve, recoils as it gives way to a force greater than itself. He's flung into another place. His head, which is no longer his own, is privy to a world in infinite flux. The only points of safety are the two cool metal bars either side of him. Bars that he clings to for dear life. He can no longer lift his neck. He can only lie, listen, and see.

First his mother comes. A girl of twenty three, wrinkling her nose in frustration in that unmistakable way of hers, before heading out to the shops. Then she's struggling down Bexleyheath High Street in the pouring rain, laden with carrier bags. Her long dark curls are plastered against her face. The bags that she holds don't really contain enough to feed the family for the week, but she'll always make do. The ghost of her voice emerges through the darkness. It is a voice that is still young, not entirely downtrodden. 'Greg love, don't take more than you need...'. He knows in that instant that he's done something terribly wrong, and that it's not something that can ever be put right.

Of course it's not her. A turn of the head reveals a woman with darker skin and tiny child-like freckles, though she wears the same distinctive curls. She holds herself upright, but there's a certain hint of vulnerability in her eyes. Lestrade has the sudden feeling that he has misjudged her. He cannot remember for what. The girl utters only one word before leaning forwards to cool his burning brow, and making a quiet departure. 'Boss'.

In the hours that follow, which may be centuries, many visitations occur. A small, blonde-haired man, who at first looks like an angel, appears time and again. And a very pretty young woman with a crooked smile, all in white. He tries to comprehend their words, but it's a garbled mess. Like a record being played backwards as he and his mates had done decades before, convinced that there was a coded message hidden within the depths of the latest hits. As he fades out of consciousness there is just one phrase that is audible, ringing tunelessly in his ears. 'Blood pressure, dangerously low'.

He sees his children. They are being hushed and comforted as they approach him tentatively. Both seem somehow transfigured in the half light. Just as quickly as they appear, they are gone, merging seamlessly into a vision of the radiant lady who stood beside him at the altar. She reaches up to him and bestows the kiss that confirms their wedlock. He feels a momentary rush of joy.

In the quiet of night he is all alone. He thinks it might stay that way forever, but somehow that's all right. Therefore the rustle of movement around him is surprising. It is not necessarily unpleasant.

A dark, willowy figure stands over him. Then a hand emerges; a tower of ivory strength in the surrounding confusion. The hand is awkwardly proffered at first, but it takes a firm hold nonetheless. It is the first solid and stable thing that Lestrade can recall in a long time. As the jumble of words coalesce into sharply articulated vowels he can scarcely believe his ears. _Is he talking about a case?_ As the details of the clues, the criminal, and the chase begin to wash over him, he finally begins to relax. Finally begins to trust. Again just a few words linger on as he slides out of the present. Words delivered in outrageously posh, but somehow comforting, tones. 'You're still with us, and that's the way it's going to stay. Back to work in no time'.


End file.
